The Butler

I pull back the old brass knocker. The door is opening before it gets the chance to fall.

"Yes?" Asks the Butler, voice cold. "Detective."

"P.I, actually," I say, replacing the knocker soundlessly. "Private Investigator. Detective would be if I were affiliated with the police force. Which...lovely lads, but...no." I didn't want to go there. I'd been there, a long time ago, and I was pretty sure I was still unwelcome. Eyes don't tend to grow back. Not naturally, anyway. Not that there'd been anything natural about - but the Butler is talking again.

"I see." He's saying. "And would I be right in saying that as a private investigator, your primary source of income comes from your clients, rather than from those "lovely lads" you mention?"

"Er, yes."

"It would follow, then, to ask why you are here, when I have made it clear that the possibility of you getting your...." He looks down his nose at me from a foot below my chin, "...hands on said funds disappears if the honor of myself or the Rose Family is called into question."

"It would so follow, yes."

He nods. "I don't suppose you've solved it already."

I shake my head.

"Well." He crosses his arms. "Why are you here, Private Investigator James Williams?"

I narrow my eyes. "To investigate. To solve. To question. Because some days I don't give a damn about the money." I push past him into the house.